


fifth floor, 508

by carryyourownbanner



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, More tags to be added, Rapunzel AU, Tangled AU, albert’s his tutor, aunt lucia’s actually race’s aunt, race is rapunzel sans long hair, spot is tired
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 19:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20317909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryyourownbanner/pseuds/carryyourownbanner
Summary: tangled. newsies. sprace. modern. need i say more?





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> me? writing a multi-chapter thing? it’s really not likely but here we are anyway

It was all she could think about.

Kidnappings happened all the time in a big city like New York, but that was for other people. It wasn’t for her only son, not her own flesh and blood; that was for the kids of parents who didn’t pay attention when their young children wandered at the grocery store, and it was for kids who weren’t hers. She didn’t understand.

She was wasting away with every day she didn’t hear back from the authorities. Even when she did, it often wasn’t good news.

“Mama?”

“Yes, Laura?”

“There’s a man at the door.”

Why hadn’t she heard a knock? She touched her daughter’s shoulder. 

Laura was ten- eight, when her little brother was born. While she couldn’t fathom his disappearance either- and her heart ached for his presence on the other side of their shared room- she was still getting on better than her mother.

“Stay here.”

She looked through the fisheye glass and asks for identification before undoing all the locks.

“What is it?”

The man looked at her solemnly.

“Miss Higgins- I’d like to talk.”

Laura listened from behind the sofa, hidden from sight.

”To talk?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We told you about the eyewitness account, yes?”

“Over by where the racetrack was.” Her voice was dull and weak.

“That. Miss Higgins-“

“Mrs.,” she insisted weakly. Laura tried not to think of her father. Mama’d lost so much all at once, it seemed- Tony, her sister, and her husband.

“Mrs. Higgins,” he began again. “Do you have any idea why your son may have been taken? Anyone who might’ve-“

“I already told you. I don’t have the money to go out and he didn’t- doesn’t go to school yet. And... there’s nothing special about any of us.”

“Nothing at all?”

Laura bit her lip. 

Her brother was special. 

She remembered once when she’d taken him out to play on the concrete patio and she’d tripped and skinned her knee badly. Antonio had just touched it, with all the innocence and compassion that a child will have, and when he’d taken his hand away it had vanished.

The toddler had just grinned, like this was ordinary- but according to Mama there wasn’t anything that could cure a scrape like that but a neon green bandaid (Laura’s favorite color). She told her about it later- evidently she still believed it was just a tall tale of her daughter’s invention.

“Okay, ma’am. You know where to call if you think of anything. We’re doing everything we can.”

It’d been six days.

“Thank you.”

She closed the door and closed each lock.

“Mama?”

“What?”

“Remember when I told you Tony was magic?”

Her eyes misted over. 

“He’s not magic, Laura.”

“If only you’d seen it. I know what I saw.”

“Okay, hon. Just- can you leave mama alone for a bit?” She nodded that she would.

She cried, and she prayed like all hell, on the sofa. Laura heard it all from where she hid behind the couch, and she buried her head in her little arms and found herself doing the same.


	2. in which albert’s bad at tic tac toe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introductions. well, most of them.

Albert DaSilva is the only person Aunt Lucia has allowed into the apartment as long as Race can remember. 

Race had insisted he needed a tutor, that he was failing his online math courses (he most certainly was not)- and this ginger Race’s age shows up at the door one day saying he read about the position. Somehow, she thought he was ‘safe’- as Race had gotten to know him, the more he was baffled by that conclusion, but he left it alone; he loved Albert.

Rarely did they speak about math, or do any outside of Race’s required lessons. They play games. Today? It’s tic-tac-toe on scratch paper.

Tic-tac-toe. A classic. It gets harder and harder to win as you get older and easier and easier to get a draw game- unless you’re Racetrack Higgins and Albert DaSilva. Although, boredom may be the driving factor for the latter’s lack of effort- or maybe Race just doesn’t want to believe he’s that bad at the easiest game on planet earth.

“Are you _blind_?” 

Albert looks at the piece of paper in a confused frenzy. “Why? Oh, wait, shit.”

Race smirks, scribbling an ‘x’ onto the tic-tac-toe board. “Victory again.”

He groans. “You’d think I’d be better at this by now. Considering it’s all we do.”

Looking around the quiet apartment, Race has to agree. There isn’t much /to/ do, because Race can’t leave at a time when Aunt Lucia might be home whenever. 

“Are you sure you’re not just letting me win?”

“Not paying attention.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What now?”

“How about... twenty-three, out of forty-five?” Race offers his exasperated friend, who bangs his fist on the table.

“No. God, no. Twenty games is enough.”

Race throws his hands in the air. “What do you wanna do? Believe me, I’m open to suggestions.”

“You could get a life and we could leave.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Race raises an eyebrow. “I told you. She won’t let me.”

“So? You’re eighteen.”

“In a week.”

“What’s the difference? You sneak out at night,” he accuses.

“When I can. It’s not like she’s stupid, she knows.”

Albert stares at him, tapping his fingers against the table. “Are you sure? There’s this place me and the boys found-“

“Jacobi’s. I know. You told me.”

“Come on. Hang out with us after school. Pride’s coming up, too. You can’t miss that again.”

Race huffs, collecting all the pieces of paper and closing his laptop. Ever since he found out he was gay- and then subsequently learned about pride through searching ‘why do I like boys bleh’ when Lucia was gone- he’s wanted to meet more people like him. And then there was Albert, a proud bisexual, who showed him that there’re actual, tangible people out there just like him. 

“Maybe. I don’t know, man.”

His friend barks out a laugh. “I don’t know that’s even a question.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Who wouldn’t want to leave this place? You’re collecting dust.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It could be better,” he says sarcastically. “A guy like you needs to be out. Why be a dumbass behind closed doors when you could be a dumbass with me outside?”

Race can’t help but crack a smile. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll try and get her off my back for a bit- what time is it, anyway?”

“Four. Ish.”

“You should’ve been gone an hour ago.”

“Yeah? And?”

“She’ll be home anytime.”

Albert stands up when Race does, the latter putting his laptop away where it needs to charge on the kitchen counter. “This isn’t normal, Race.”

“What is?”

“I don’t know, being able to leave your own house?”

“Not having magic... heal-ly... hands, that’s what.”

Al shakes his head. “Like anyone’ll know.”

“I’m being bullied.”

He puts an arm around his shoulders as he puts his hat back on with his free hand. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? I’m not sure how legal it is, but two people can definitely fit on a skateboard. Or you could use your legs and walk.”

Race looks away. “Another time, Al.”

He rolls his eyes, pulling Race in for a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“See you.”

Race watches from his bedroom window as Albert goes down the fire escape, glancing up at him a few more times like ‘please, come with me, we can make it okay’ and Race has to pretend he can’t tell. 

“Bye, loser!”

He almost runs into a lamppost grinning at him as he disappears around the block. Race snickers, before regretfully turning away from the window, shutting it and locking it. 

And just like that, all life is gone from that fifth floor apartment again.

If it weren’t for Albert, where would he be?

He hears the door open in the kitchen, but he can’t bring himself to go greet her. It’s the same rhetoric, ‘get a life, come with me, you’re not a vampire, racer, the sunlight won’t hurt you’ and yet it still hurts to refuse despite how much goddamn sense it makes. Then there are days like this, where it especially stings to watch him ride away when he could be with him.

Aunt Lucia comes to him, because he doesn’t respond when she calls for him.

“Racetrack, there you are.”

“Hey.”

“How were your lessons?”

“Great.”

He can feel her suspicious eyes on him as he stares out the window, so he turns his gaze to her with a tiny smile. 

“How’s that kid?”

“Albert’s fine.“

“That’s good.”

Race looks at her, a sort of is-that-all look on his face, and, evidently, it is not.

“What were you looking at?”

“The... street?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t bother. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

Lucky? He hardly feels like it. He bites his lip and nods. “Yeah. Just bored. Counting cars.”

“Doesn’t sound very exciting. Would you mind helping with dinner?”

“What is it?”

“Spaghetti.”

Race huffs. His weakness.

“Fine. I mean- yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

She smiles at him and leaves, and Race slumps against the wall. He rubs his eyes- the last thing he wants to do is leave his room to go elsewhere in the dingy apartment when the window was right there.

But he denies himself, somehow, after flicking the locks. If he has to stay, he’s not locking himself in... it’s the only semblance of control he’s ever had.

* * *

“Better?”

He takes his hands off her shoulders, having just ended the last note of an Italian lullaby. Every day after dinner she has him sing to her and rub her shoulders, god knows why. It’s her peculiar way of things, he supposes, and that’d be the only thing they had in common; their aversion to what seemed normal. Of course, their was their curly blonde hair, and their blue eyes... but the similarities end there. The one and only thing Race has always been sure of since he was a child is that he and his aunt are nothing alike.

Those eyes of hers more often look like a snake’s than a human woman’s, and sometimes Race finds himself on the receiving end of her spitting venom. She‘s a spinster (who looks strangely young for a woman of... well, Race doesn’t know, actually), and he can’t stop thinking about getting out there and romancing one of those cute boys who walk by on the rare occasion on the pavement below when he looks out the kitchen window. She’s got the sense of humor of a brick and- well, that’s actually a solid comparison. She’s blunt and harsh and if she were a drink, she’d be green tea, because Race can’t stand it.

“Much. Thank you, Racetrack.”

“No problem.”

Race goes immediately to the dishes, exchanging painfully emotionless smiles with Lucia. 

“Your birthday’s coming up, yeah?”

“Yep.”

“What do you want?”

A lot, Race thinks. A lot I can’t have. “Nothing.”

She furrows her brows. “You can’t want nothing. Be honest.”

“I don’t want to say.”

“I think you do, Tony,” she says, with a playful and sort of chiding voice that makes him cringe even more the older he gets.

“I want a curfew. You know, like, a time I’m allowed to run around outside before. Rather than... none of the time.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Where’s this coming from?”

Race bites his lip. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve never seen the outside of our building? That’s, like- a pretty normal thing, right?”

“We’ve been through this, Antonio...”

“If no one knows about me why would they go after me?“

“We can’t take that risk.”

Race scrubs the pot clean a bit more furiously. “There is no risk. No one goes around looking for magic, Lucia, okay? It’s not normal. So they don’t see it, they explain it away.”

“You don’t know what it’s like out there.”

“But I do. I’m not dumb.”

“Racer, don’t you believe everything that kid tells you. He’s not as fortunate as you... you’re done with the semester in a few days anyway. I don’t see why you need him.”

“He’s my friend, Lucia.”

She stands up and walks silently to the sink, overtaking the dishes and all-but shoving Race away- it’s more an understood thing than physical. “I think you need some time to... think. I know what you’re thinking, Tony- don’t you even think of it.”

Words have stopped him all his life... presumably, anyway, as the damned apartment is all he remembers. Albert’s right... always has been- and there’s nothing stopping him from following the next time he climbs out through that window and never turning back- nothing but fear of hurting a woman who could be crazy and think she’s helping... or, more likely- god knows.

Regardless, he obeys, fingertips dragging on the counter as he turns to go to his room.

“Goodnight.”

* * *

“Hey, bud, I need you to pick something up for me. 3116, Conaway Street- apartment- what was it, Morris? 508. Just need you to pick up some cash for us- our uncle sent us the address.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Busy. Look, you can have twenty of it if you want, just get us the money.”

“I don’t-“

“Aight, kid, I gotta go. Meet you later for it?”

“Oscar- Oscar, if you hang up on me, I swear to-“

The screen fades from the call screen to the home screen, accompanied by a telling beep, beep, beep that means the call’s ended.

“Goddamnit.”

Spot slips his ancient, cracked phone into his pocket, before rubbing his temples exhaustedly. He’s sitting in a subway station- imagine that? it’s practically his home, at this point- and the hustle and bustle doesn’t help with his headache.

Why couldn’t they meet with their own thugs?

How had he gotten roped into this? He can’t remember. But the Delancey brothers are powerful, they have more hold on the city due to certain connections than anyone else Spot knows- there’s no going back now. 

He keeps saying the address over and over again in his head as he climbs up to the streets of Brooklyn... it’s odd, really, Conaway’s in a better part of Manhattan. Most of the goose-chases the brothers send him on are to some slum, where he’d get weird looks if he didn’t look like he was ready to attack at any second like some kind of feral cat. He doubted that attitude would be appreciated at a place like Conaway Street, though- whatever. If it was wrong he’d just say he must’ve been given the wrong address- it’s the truth and it’s not exactly incriminating.

He’s passing through Manhattan, now, closer to his destination and just aching for a break. Instead of a break- well, he gets his brother Jack, sprinting out of a deli right in front of him to make things worse. He makes to turn around, but-

“Spot, think of the devil.”

Too late, of course.

“...Jack. Hey.”

“Where’ve you been? You ain’t been home in days, Medda’s askin’ after ya.”

“Around. Look, I’m busy.”

“Around?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“I don’t know what shady shit you’re in, but you need to come home. Charlie’s askin’ about you too-“

“Great. Good for him.”

Jack grabs his shoulder as he tries to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“I told you, I’m busy.”

“What’ve you got in your pocket?”

He scowls. “My phone? I get it, you don’t trust me, don’t gotta make it any more clear.”

“You’re gonna get us all in some deep shit. It’s been a week.”

“I’m not gonna bring it back home. I’m just gettin’ something for some buddies of mine, okay? It ain’t drugs, don’t look at me like that.”

“It’s blood money.”

Spot snorts incredulously. “What do you think this is, the mafia? It’s probably just some lazy assholes with a rich auntie givin’ them their birthday money. Get off my back.”

“Spot-“

He wrenches out of his grip and walks away, flipping him off unceremoniously. Maybe he’ll be home tonight, maybe he won’t. It’s none of Jack’s business.

He’s in even more of a hurry to be done with this ‘job’ at this point. He gets strange looks for his haggard appearance on Conaway, and for his haste, but he reaches the building in no time. It looks way too nice to be associated with the Delanceys- it’s not Midtown, but just about anything’s too good for them, in Spot’s opinion.

He climbs the steps, casting a paranoid glance over his shoulder as he goes inside. It smells nice- like someone cares about its upkeep, and there’s a vase of flowers on a table. He doesn’t stick around, he goes straight to the stairs.

Up one, up two. Three, and then four. Maybe this is why he’s so fit- running errands for Oscar and Morris to destinations that never seem to be on the first floor- or the second, or the third. Always the top floor.

He combs a hand through his hair. It’s darker up here- is it? Yes, the curtains are drawn at the window at the end of the hall. Five-oh-eight, that was at the front of the building- to the left of that window.

No doorbell; he knocks. God, he hopes it’s the right address. He doesn’t want to deal with Oscar and Morris anymore than he has to.

* * *

Race wakes to a silent apartment.

Albert can’t be expected for a few hours yet, it’s only ten, and that’s if he comes at all- some days he’s got shit to do and Race understands that. 

Which, of course, then begs the question of what the hell he’s going to do all day.

If nothing else, the one thing Race is best at is finding something to entertain himself with when anyone else would say there’s nothing to do. Aunt Lucia’s complained before that she can’t keep books in the house without him picking them up and reading them in a day- she wouldn’t have that problem, Race thinks wryly, if she’d let him live his life like Albert does- go to school, stay out too late and be grounded for a week (true story; and he’d missed Albert’s company so much), and be a part of those stories Al tells him about... the spoon fight that happened in the cafeteria about a month ago, for example. He wants to go to college with him, now that they’re pretty much done. He wants to laugh and smile and just be free to live.

His walls are painted with random patterns and his computer’s files are filled with poems and notes and other stuff he’s written. He’s taught himself how to dance (somewhat) and he’s had no choice but to practice his singing- on that there was never any debate. He’s a man of the arts, by anything but choice, but he supposes he could’ve found worse ways to spend his time. He’s sat there and tried to find different ways to solve algebraic equations for fun, and he learned Russian because he was bored- that, Italian, and Spanish. 

When he was younger it was easier. He could pretend the great big kitchen island was a mountain and the cupboards caves, or that the curtains were cascading waterfalls; that the floor was lava, or that the patterns on the ceiling were actually clouds and that his shadow was his playmate. Suddenly, the island was just a countertop and suddenly he couldn’t fit in the cupboards anymore. Suddenly, his shadow faded into the background of his thoughts, brushed away as just an ordinary occurrence. Things are always more wonderful through a child’s eyes.

Race has never been dumb. A dumbass, maybe, on occasion, but he’s not stupid. As he learned more he began to understand that his conditions were not normal, and that ordinary children played at the park or went out with their parents. That was when he was five. That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years of knowing he’s a prisoner- he hasn’t done anything about it save for sitting for a few hours out on the fire escape every couple nights for the past few years. Something about climbing down to the pavement terrifies him and excites him all at once.

All the more reason to do it, Albert told him once when he explained the feeling to him. But Race had brushed him off, saying that he couldn’t act on impulses like that, it wasn’t safe. The heart was flighty, the mind was sure. 

He knew now that that was absolute rubbish. 

Albert told him once that people didn’t think like that anymore. For better or worse, people did what they wanted at any given time without much thought of the future... as a mass, anyway. 

And to Race, that’s exciting. He wants to dance like no one’s watching when someone is, or go skateboarding with Albert on just the one skateboard like he’d suggested. He wants to hold on tight and risk something for once.

Knowing Race, of course, once he gets an idea of something...

He finds himself pacing by the door. He keeps checking the clock. Eleven. Noon. One. She’ll be home in three hours. Three hours to decide if I should go today. Three hours...

New York City, though: it doesn’t wait. 

And the knock Race hears on the door that definitely wasn’t Aunt Lucia’s doing is his first sweet, sweet taste of the city’s devil-may-care attitude he’s never known. 


End file.
